


1929

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Avengers - Freeform, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Use, Forced Prostitution, Gambling, Gangs, Homophobia, Multi, Murder, Organized Crime, Prostitution, Racism, Sexism, Tags are definitely going to change because im a fickle fucker, Underage Prostitution, racketeering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tony Stark is a gang boss facing off against Quentin Beck, James Rhodes is trying to keep him alive, Matt Murdock is trying to stop all three of them, Peter Parker is angry, and Wade Wilson finds the entire situation extremely funny.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Chicago, December 1929.

Four months after the stock market crash, nine years into Prohibition.

Tony Stark sat at his desk, pounding away at the typewriter. Every couple minutes he took a sip of his whiskey. Tony was, if anything, an opportunist. He saw the second door open before the first had closed. So when nine years ago, he was forced down illegal avenues to support his alcoholism, he jumped at the opportunities the criminal world presented. Drugs, gambling, prostitution. He realized he had an uncanny aptitude for the unsavory things in life, which was fine with him. Unsavory things tended to draw in big bucks. Nine years later, he was a millionaire. He was deadly, efficient. He had all the worst kinds of dogs working for him. The vicious kind, the crazy, kind, the loyal kind. His reputation preceded him. He hardly had to lift a finger to keep rival gangs in check. No one fucked with him. No one. Except for, apparently, Quentin Beck. 

He sighed and stopped typing.

_ Ms. Virginia Potts _

_ 401 McKinley Drive _

_ Paris, Illinois _

_ December 9, 1929 _

_ Dear Pepper, _

~~_ Bonjour! Comment allez vous.  _ ~~

~~_ It’s been far too long. _ ~~

~~_ How is Mary doing? _ ~~

~~_ I don’t know what you’re thinking. _ ~~

~~_ I was only ever thinking of you. _ ~~

~~_ You’re an ungrateful whore. _ ~~

~~_ Why are you doing this? _ ~~

Tony took a big swig of whiskey. His criminal life did come with a few downsides. 

Someone knocked at the door. 

He threaded his hand through his hair.

“Come in,” said Tony.

Rhodey entered the room and sat on a squash leather chair opposite Tony. He folded his hands in his lap. Tony abandoned the typewriter in favor of Rhodey, a much needed distraction.

”Drink?” Tony offered.

“No, thank you.”

Tony shrugs and refilled his own cup, spilling a few drops on the desk. Rhodey didn’t say anything.

”Beck’s getting whiskey from Benny Parker’s drugstore.”

”Benny? You’re kidding me.”

”We both know I don’t kid.”

”It’d be a good time to start.“

Rhodey looked at the abandoned sheet of paper stuck in the typewriter.

”What are you writing?”

”A cantata.”

”Tony.”

”Never too late to follow your passion.”

”Tony!”

Tony glared at Rhodey. Most men would buckle and start ratting out their friends, enemies, grandmas, whatever under his glare, but Rhodey knew him too well for that. They’re been together since the beginning. Rhodey had saved his ass at least a dozen times over the past decade. He knew there was no weight behind his threat.

”A letter.” said Tony.

”To who?”

”To whom.”

”Tony.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek.

”Pepper.”

Rhodey had nothing to say about that. Tony laughed. Figures. They were both quiet for a while. Tony poured the rest of the whiskey into his glass, this time spilling nearly half of it. Fuck. That shit was expensive. Rhodey stared at him, obviously wanting him to say something, but Tony didn’t give him the satisfaction. He pretended he didn’t notice, and Rhodey, for all his faults, pretended like he didn’t notice he was pretending not to notice, which thankfully saved him from pretending not to notice him noticing him pretending not to notice. It really saved him a lot of effort. 

After a few more minutes, Rhodey sighed.

”So what are we gonna do about Benny?” he asked.

Tony took another drink before speaking.

“We could send Happy over to have a little talk with him, or we could off him.”

“No, Benny’s useful. If he’s out of the picture, we’re down one supplier.”

“We’re losing a supplier anyway.”

“He’s an old man with a family. If he knows you found out, he’ll drop Quentin without a fight.”

“That’s not the point, Rhodey.”

“What is the point?”

“The message we’re sending. If Beck sees us let Benny off the hook after dealing with him, he’s gonna get some funny ideas.”

“If we have Happy mess him up-”

“Doesn’t matter how many bruises and broken bones we give ‘em. If he’s alive, Beck’ll notice.”

“We’ll off the wife or the nephew.”

“Did you not hear what I just fucking said? Nothing we do means anything if he’s alive!”

Rhodey was quiet. Tony drained the rest of his whiskey.

“You hate it when I’m right.”

  
  


………………

  
  
  


Wade sat perched on the edge of a building overlooking Benny’s Drug & Corner Store. The cold wind aggravated the scars not covered by his red bandana. The bandana made him feel like a Western-style Robin Hood, saving the town-stead from an evil railway tycoon instead of a paid thug. 

[Thug? We’re no thug, we’re a mercenary!]

<Yeah, quit smearing our name!>

”Hush, guys, I’m on the clock.”

<Ooh, who’re ya huntin’ this time?>

[He said hush, unless you don’t want to kill someone tonight?]

<Sorry.>

”Just be quiet!”

Voices drifted up from the ground below. Nothing important, just a couple drunken men stumbling home after a long night. Wade couldn’t remember the last time he got drunk, but not for lack of trying. He could drain an entire bottle of vodka in a minute and he wouldn’t feel a thing. Trust him, he’s tried. One of them was griping about his woman, while the other kept telling him to “Slow down,” and “Take it easy.” The man didn’t listen. He kept talking, and shouting, and even dancing to a song he sang himself. Wade couldn’t tell what song. His singing was somehow completely tuneless and he replaced half the lyrics with “ya da da da da da”. But he was surprisingly light on his feet. He dipped and twirled and swayed with ease, even in his drunken state. Wade wondered if he was a dancer. The man sung and danced along for another couple minutes, before doubling over and vomiting in an alleyway. Wade stopped paying attention after that.

He heard a dog barking in the distance. He didn’t mind the sound, even when another joined in, and another, and another, and soon the air was filled with a dozen overlapping barks. A man shouted at the dogs from his window. It did nothing. A woman shouted at the man shouting at the dogs from her window. Another man shouted at the woman shouting at the man shouting at the dogs from his window. Soon, there were as many people shouting from windows as there were dogs yapping.

Taxis and shiny new automobiles clogged the streets, honking and revving. The black smoke they coughed and hacked up mixed with the black night air. He remembered when he was a kid, something he usually hated doing, only the richest of the rich owned automobiles, but then Ford came along and really changed up the game. Wade wondered if he should buy one himself. Sure, everything in Chicago was in walking distance, but they looked so snazzy and Wade was never good with self-control.

Wade lost himself in the noise. Any hunk of land with a few tall buildings and automobiles was dubbed “The City That Never Sleeps.” In his experience, it was usually apt, but Chicago... Chicago was something else. Most people liked quiet. They found it calming. They couldn’t sleep without it. Wade couldn’t sleep in silence. He couldn’t sleep much anyway, but he especially couldn’t sleep in silence. He didn’t know how people did it. His head was so loud, he always needed something to distract him, otherwise he couldn’t think, so he was constantly doing at least three things at once: ignoring the noise in his head, tuning into the noise around him, and doing whatever else he was supposed to do, usually a job. Luckily for him (and his bosses), he was a fantastic multitasker. 

The lights of Benny’s Drug & Corner Store flicked off. A man stepped out into the cold December night, his coat billowing around him. That was Wade’s cue to follow? The man’s home was cute, small and blue with a little rose garden out front. Hand-sewn lace curtains covered the windows. All the lights were off except for one on the second floor, kept on like a beacon for the man who always worked so late. The father, the husband. Wade waited another thirty minutes until the light upstairs blinked out before entering the house.

He moved silently, which was quite a feat considering he was over six feet tall and dense with muscle. The inside of the house was endearing as well. Two antique cabinets, family heirlooms, leaned against the wall in the living room. They housed the good china. Soft quilts piled on the sofa, which was also draped with lace. He felt he should’ve taken his shoes off before entering, but considering what he was about to do, the thought was comical. He crept into the kitchen. It felt smaller than it actually was because of a round table, also also draped in lace (the man’s wife was talented), seated in the corner. Three chairs were tucked into it. He could still smell the ham they had for supper. He drew his gun as he climbed up the stairs. Normally, he’d like to take his time with a blade, but this was an important job. He couldn’t screw it up. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he stood still and listened. After a moment, he picked up soft snoring from the door down the hall. 

Wade cocked his gun.

Neither of them stirred when he entered the room. The wife only woke up when she heard, and felt, her husband being shot. Wade didn’t give her the time to scream, not that he was particularly concerned with noise. He didn’t want her to have enough time to process what happened to her husband. Better her last moments were spent in shock rather than grief. Bits of his brains mixed with bits of her brains on the headboard.

<Aw, how romantic.>

Wade tucked his gun away in his belt. He turned around, and saw a horrified young man standing in the doorway. He stared wide-eyed at the scene, flicking his gaze back and forth between his parents and Wade. Wade waved at the kid.

”Hello,” he said.

”...Aunt May, Uncle Benny...” 

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that, kid. See, your Uncle Benny here pissed off this fella’ I sometimes work for, and y’know, when your boss tells ya to whack a guy-“

”You killed them...”

”Um... yeah?”

[Did he just figure that out?]

The kid stared.

”Riiiiiiight,” said Wade, “Well, I’m gonna get outta your hair, kid. ‘Should probably call the cops.”

The second Wade stepped out the door, he realized how quiet it was. 

………………

  
  
  


“So, Quentin Beck,” Tony said.

He paced in front of the window that took up most of the back wall. The sun was just rising, filling the room with golden light and casting long shadows against the floor.

“Bucky’s on’em.”

“Do we know where he lives?”

“Tony, I think we should wait a bit to off him.”

“Why?”

“We don’t want to do anything reckless.”

“Are you suggesting we negotiate?”

“Quentin Beck would make a  _ very _ valuable ally.”

“No.”

“Tony-”

“No. I’m not negotiating with Quentin-fucking Beck.”

“You’re making this persona-.”

“This is purely a  _ business decision. _ Rhodey, I’ve got a reputation to uphold, and Beck is fucking that up.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe that’s it.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair.

“Will you quit acting like my fucking wife, Rhodey? I didn’t get this far by negotiating with my rivals.”

“You got this far because you took advantage of every opportunity that came your way.”

“This isn’t an opportunity, it’s a viper pit!”

“You know there’s always a risk.”

“Sure, you gotta weigh the risk against the reward, and the risk of making buddy buddy with Quentin Beck outweighs the reward by roughly two and a half baby elephants.”

“Tony-”

“We’re offing him, and that’s fin-”

Something crashed through the window and landed next to Tony’s feet. The second he realized what it was, he grabbed Rhodey by the arm and yanked him behind a heavy file cabinet across the room. The grenade exploded, sending shards of wood and glass flying across the room. Tony squeezed his eyes shut tight. He felt hundreds of shards make tiny cuts on his face and arms. He didn’t let go of Rhodey’s arm, even after the explosion. They sat behind the cabinet for an indeterminate amount of time. Tony didn’t let go of Rhodey’s arm. He tried and failed to catch his breath. After a few minutes, he began to notice people shouting and screaming from outside what used to be the window. Someone opened the door to the office.

“What the hell happened here?” asked Steve.

He kept his shield raised. 

“I… I don’t…” Tony tried.

A loud hissing noise came from the middle of the room. Everybody jumped back. Green smoke filled the air.

“Everyone get out!” Steve shouted.

For some reason, Tony didn’t listen to him. He must've still been in shock because instead of doing the perfectly sensible thing and leaving the room with Steve and Rhodey, he got out from behind the filing cabinet and walked to the source of the noise. 

“Tony, get the fuck back over here!”

Tony didn’t listen. A small, green ball sat in the middle of the room. It puffed out a few final plumes of smoke. Tony stared at it for a moment, before hesitantly picking it up.

“Tony!”

“Smoke bomb,” he said numbly.

He felt someone grab him from behind and drag him out of the room, down five flights of stairs (he really should reconsider having his office on the fifth floor), and into the buildings basement, A.K.A a padded bunker with enough food to last them all an entire year, even with Steve’s insane appetite.

Steve was speaking, shouting more like it. Tony wasn’t listening. He stared at the smoke bomb. The green powder stained his hands. 

“Tony.”

A smoke bomb. What was Beck, twelve?

“Tony.”

Sure, he wasn’t completely adverse to spectacle, but this was just ridiculous.

“Tony.”

He hated the eccentric types.

“Tony!”

Tony looked up at Rhodey. He sure loved saying his name, didn’t he? Steve was no longer speaking.

“I think we negotiate,” said Tony.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Matt Murdock was a shitty lawyer. At least, he thought so as a man who murdered his wife and daughter in a drunken rage walked down the courthouse steps. Free. 

The trial should have been a cake walk. The cops caught him red handed, literally, he was covered in the blood of his family. The people he was supposed to protect.

But somehow, he had enough money and connections to perform some legal magic, and he Houdini’d his way out of the electric chair. Matt wanted to punch something. 

The worst part was, trials like that weren’t even uncommon. Chicago was a cesspool of crime and corruption. Gangs ran the city, not police, or the courts, or the law. With enough money, anyone could get away with anything. Most people could ignore it. Let the drugs, gambling, murder, and prostitution fall into the constant backdrop of city life and go about their days never sparing it a second thought. But Matt decided to become a lawyer, for reasons unfathomable to him now. He couldn’t just not think about it, and couldn’t just not do anything, either.

So Matt Murdock, prestigious lawyer and well-respected member of society, sat crouched in a fire escape listening to two young men in an alleyway. One, a tall, red-haired man, took slow drags from his cigarette. The other man, smaller and dark-haired, couldn’t keep still. He paced back and forth, chewed on his nails, and dragged his hand along the rough brick wall. 

After about a half an hour, another man appeared at the mouth of the alleyway. He held a brown paper bag at his side. 

“How’ve ya been, Tommy?” said the redhead.

“You got my money?”

The red-head reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a fat stack of bills. He handed it to Tommy. Tommy counted the money, nodded, and unwrapped a bottle of liquor from the paper bag. The redhead reached for it, but Tommy pulled away.

“Wha-”

Tommy clocked the red-head over the head with the bottle. It shattered on impact. The short man panicked and fumbled with his gun. He shot, but missed. Tommy lunged forward and stabbed him in the throat with the broken bottle, cutting off the short man’s scream. 

Matt leapt from the fire escape and hit the pavement with hardly a sound. Tommy looked startled, but not frightened. Matt heard him pull a gun. He jumped ten feet, flipping midair and landing behind Tommy. Tommy tried to move away, but Matt hit him over the head with his baton. Unfortunately, the blow didn’t knock him out. Tommy found the broken bottle and stabbed Matt in the chest. He sprinted towards the mouth of the alley and disappeared around the corner. Matt recovered quickly and followed. He preferred to keep to the shadows when on patrol, but if it was between that and catching a crook, he chose the crook every time. 

Tommy didn’t get far. Matt threw his baton and hit him between the shoulder blades, incapacitating him. Matt cracked him across the leg with the baton, breaking it just to make sure he couldn’t run. Tommy yelped. He stared up at Matt.

“What the hell? Ya can’t even see in that thing!”

Matt Murdock, prestigious lawyer and well-respected member of society, pulled out a small blade from his pocket and dragged it along Tommy’s throat before he could say anything else. Tommy gagged and choked on his own blood as it bubbled at his lips. Matt pulled away to avoid getting blood on his mask. 

  
  


…………………

  
  


“This is what you call negotiation?” asked Rhodey.

Tony shrugged. He tossed another machine gun, of his own design, into the pile. 

“You think I’m making a mistake?”

Rhodey was quiet for a minute.

“No.”

Tony smiled.

“Thought so.”

“Not the time,Tony.”

“Is it ever?”

The guns were the easy part. The hard part was going to be convincing Beck to “negotiate”. Before, it felt like an option. Not an option Tony was going to take, but nonetheless an option. He’d send a guy over, they’d chat (actually chat), Beck would send a guy back, they’d meet up in a secure location, make sure no one had any guns or knives or anything, talk, draw up a map of territories and shit, shake hands, and be on their merry ways. And then Beck threw a grenade through Tony’s office window. Clearly, he wasn’t open to negotiation. 

What to do, what to do?

“Do you think it’ll be enough?” asked Steve.

Tony laughed. He rested a gun on his shoulder and pointed it around the room.

“Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam. I just killed five guys in four seconds.”

“Don’t just wave that thing around!” said Rhodey.

Tony smiled again, and threw the gun into the pile.

“You leave the guns to me, and focus on the logistics, Stevie. Good luck getting Beck to go alo-”

“Beck agreed to negotiations.”

Tony froze.

“Did he now?”

“Tony,” said Rhodey, “You know this is a-”

“Trap. Yes, Rhodey. I’ve been a gangster for ten years and I’m not dead. Yet. Of course it’s a fucking trap.”

“So,” Steve said,” we’re going to tell him-”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s a trap.”

“And we have thirty-one machine guns and counting. Nothing he pulls on us can trump that.”

“Says your arrogance.”

“Says logic.  _ Thirty-one machine guns, Steve.” _

“How do we know he doesn’t have thirty-two?”

“From where?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know anything about this.”

“No one from San Francisco to Chicago makes guns like mine. We can’t lose.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but him and Rhodey shared a look. 

“Trust me, fellas’, I know what I’m doing.”

  
  


………………

Peter found the homeless life wasn’t really for him. It was just his luck, being put out of his home in the middle of December. While he waited in line for a bowel of thin, watery soup, the cold bit through his layers and left him small and shivering. When he wasn’t waiting for food, he was pacing around the city, begging for food, or money, or clothes, or anything. Just his luck being put out of his home right after the biggest economic recession in decades. People gave what they could, but that was never much. He thought at least the cold, the pain, and the hunger would keep his mind squarely in survival mode, that his only worries would be where he was going to sleep that night, or how he would keep his toes from falling off. 

Unfortunately for him, the homeless life contained a lot of waiting and standing still, and despite the cold, the pain, and the hunger, there were certain things he couldn’t keep his mind off of.

_ Uncle Benny, Aunt May, limp on their bed. Brains splattered against the headboard. The sharp tang of blood in the air. The vacant look in his uncle’s eyes. A man standing above them, gun in hand, waving, speaking, then he’s gone. He’s left alone with them. He feels his stomach churn, and vomits on the carpet. When he looks back up, they’re still there. Still dead. He runs downstairs and picks up the phone. _

_ “Operator? Please, the police!” _

_ They were there in four minutes. _

_ “What happened here?” _

_ He tries to explain, but he’s sobbing. The moment he mentions the man in the red bandana, the officer understands. Then he’s gone, too. Peter is left alone in the house where his aunt and uncle were murdered. _

It played in his mind over and over again, like the movies he saw in the cinema with Aunt May and Uncle Benny, leaving him trembling and sobbing in the middle of Michigan Avenue. No one gave him any weird looks. Sorrow was everywhere on the streets of Chicago. 

Peter sat on a bench facing the Chicago River. A strong gust of cold wind pulled at his clothes and tousled his hair. He shivered and pulled his coat tighter around him. He stared at the water. Morning light danced off the subtle waves, causing the surface to glitter like it was sprinkled with fairy dust. Tears stung his eyes and he smiled. It felt nice to imagine the world was still filled with magic. Another gust of wind tore through him. He hugged his legs to his chest and curled up into a tight ball.

Someone draped a coat over his shoulders. He looked up. A handsome dark-haired man stared at him. He looked to be around Peter’s age.

“Thank you,” said Peter.

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled, and pulled a wrapped sandwich out of his pocket, “Hungry?”

_ Always.  _

“Thank you.”

He took the sandwich and ate the whole thing in three bites. The man looked amused. He extended his hand out to Peter.

“Harry Osborn.”

Peter took it.

“Peter Parker.”

“So what’s your story, Peter?”

“Don’t have much of one.”

“C’mon, everyone has a story.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does.”

Harry put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He sighed.

“Some bastard killed my aunt and uncle.”

“Y’know who?”

“Big guy in a red bandana.”

“Wade Wilson?”

Peter looked to Harry.

“You know him?”

“I know of him.”

Peter was silent for a while after. He played with the paper in his hands, folding it and tearing at the corners. He didn’t look at Harry, or back at the river. Harry knew the man who killed his aunt and uncle. Wade Wilson. Who was Wade? He couldn’t be some random burglar, could he? Harry knew him, and so did the cop at his house. But why would a trained criminal go after his aunt and uncle? They were good people. A kind old couple with a humble home and a successful drug store. They never bothered anyone.

“So Wade Wilson… You wanna kill him?”

“Wha… What?”

Peter looked at Harry again.

“Do you?”

“...Yes.”

Harry smiled.

“I can help with that?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Harry Osborn.”

“How could you help me kill a man?”

Harry shrugged. 

“My old man owns a boxing ring, and we need fighters. We could get some food in your belly, toughen you up a bit, and help you find that Wade guy.”

“You want me to fight for you?”

“Yeah, and we’ll pay ya, too.”

“How much?”

“That’s negotiable. Oh, and we’ll give you a place to stay.”

Peter chewed his lip.

“Alright.”

………………

Matt entered his apartment and hung his coat on the rack beside the door. He plopped down on the torn leather sofa. He heard Foggy come in from the kitchen with two bowls of pasta. It smelled wonderful. 

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” said Foggy, “Never mind, actually, I don’t want to know.” 

Matt smiled. Foggy was one of the only people that could make him smile anymore. 

“You hear about the bombing in South Lynne?”

“Stark’s building?”

“Yeah. Apparently, Quentin Beck was involved.”

Quentin Beck. He’d been making quite the buzz around Chicago, lately.

“Yeah?”

“Well… You getting involved?”

“What d’you think?”

“I think you’re a reckless bastard.”

Matt smiled again.

“That’s your answer.”

“Well, if you’re gonna do this anyway, you should talk to Eleanor. She’s got some info on the whole thing.”

“Did she tell you to say that?”

“Yes. She also told me to tell you her bed’s getting cold.”

“And how much does it hurt to say that?”

“More than it hurts you to be stabbed in the chest, apparently.”

Matt shrugged.

“It’ll heal.”

“Someday, you’re gonna die in an alleyway and I will laugh.” 

“Sure.”

“Y’know, most blind men walk around with sticks and sit on park benches listening to bird calls.”

“That was just that one guy.”

“That’s fifty percent of the blind guys I know.”

“Well, I’m the other fifty percent.”

“Just be careful, ok.”

Matt wrapped his arm around Foggy’s shoulder.

“Yeah, alright.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I might be making Tony too much of a dumbass.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty boxer Peter and Wade and Carol Danvers being bros.

Peter didn’t mind the pain. It grounded him. Kept him in the moment. Kept him from thinking. The only things he allowed himself to think of were fighting, Wade Wilson, or fighting Wade Wilson. After the weeks (years, really) of hopelessness and despair, anger was freeing. Harry had woken something deep inside him. He showed him how to turn his grief into rage. 

_ “That’s it, punch!” _

_ Peter pulls his hand back and hesitantly hits the bag. It barely moves. He wasn’t expecting it to be so damn heavy. _

_ “Again.” _

_ Peter does as he’s told. _

_ “Again.” _

_ “Again.” _

_ “Again.” _

_ He’s punching, and punching, and punching, but still the bag barely moves. In fact, he nearly topples over trying to push it forward.  _

_ “How the hell do’ya think you’re gonna beat Wade-fucking-Wilson if you can’t even hit a damn punching bag?” _

_ The answer is he can’t. Peter knows this, Harry knows this. Still, Harry keeps going. _

_ “How ‘ya gonna beat a guy twice your size who can take a dozen shots without even flinchin’?” _

_ He can’t. _

_ “How ‘ya gonna beat a guy who can slice off your head quicker than you can tie your shoe?” _

_ He can’t. _

_ “How ‘ya gonna beat a guy who’d sooner turn your insides to your outsides than say hello?” _

_ He can’t. He’s slow. His arms feel heavier than the bag, yet he still can’t fucking move it. Each stumble forward is more pathetic than the last. His legs feel like they're gonna buckle any second now, but still Harry keeps going. _

_ “How ‘ya gonna beat a man who sneaks into your house without’a sound and splatters a sweet old lady and a good, hardworking man’s brains against the wall, and makes their poor kid watch.” _

_ He was no kid. He was sixteen years old, almost an adult. He was a man. He could’ve stopped him. He could’ve knocked him out with the telephone. He could’ve snuck up behind him with a butcher’s knife and stabbed him in his fat fucking skull. He could’ve blown his brains out with his own damn gun. He could’ve done anything to prevent him from murdering his family, but he didn’t, he didn’t because he was a filthy, scrawny, wimpy, pathetic, pansy- _

_ The bag swings forward, straining against the chain tethering it to the ceiling. Peter dodges out of the way before it can hit him back with his own force. He looks at Harry in awe. Harry is smiling, like he knew this would happen from the very beginning. _

_ “Do it, again.” _

  
  


What started as a flicker in his chest Harry fanned into a raging fire. It consumed his pain like kindling to burn hotter, brighter, stronger. He backed that anger behind every swerve, every kick, every punch. He abandoned all his old dreams. Study, go to school, land a professor job at Boston, find a girl, settle down. They didn’t mean anything to him now. Nothing else meant anything to him but Wade-fucking-Wilson what Peter was going to do to him once he finally tracked him down. He’d beat him, cut him, burn him, and shoot him. Harry said even if Peter killed him, Wade never stayed dead for long. Peter refused to believe him. Immortality was a dream, especially for someone like Wade Wilson. He’d kill him as many times as it took for him to stay dead. He’d revel in it. Beat, cut, burn, shoot, beat, cut, burn, shoot, beat, cut, burn, shoot, beat, cut, burn, shoot, beat-

Peter felt someone grab him from behind. 

Flash lied curled up on the floor of the ring. His face was bashed bloody, his shoulder hung out of the socket, and his arm bent at an unnatural angle. Peter was willing to bet he was missing a few teeth as well, but his lips were so swollen, it was hard to tell for sure.

“Dear lord,” he mumbled. He looked through the thick haze of tobacco smoke at the crowd. Chatter had quieted, cigars dangled from lips. Everyone looked just as stunned as he felt, except for, of course, Harry. He stood just outside the ring, smiling at Peter.

Afterwards, Peter stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his own injuries. A swollen lip and a light bruise on the corner of his mouth, both from the one hit he remembered Flash getting in. He could’ve hit him again while Peter was out, but, well, Peter thought it unlikely, and his lack of other injuries pretty much confirmed it. He heard the door swing open behind him. Harry clapped him on the shoulder. Peter saw them both reflected in the mirror, he slouched and ashamed, and Harry still smiling.

“Peter, I think you’re ready.”

Peter turned around to face him.

“Ready for what?”

“The next step.”

* * *

Carol Danvers was coming up dry. Of course, for most journalists, bagging closeup photos of the South Lynne Bombing would be enough to coast on for months, or years, or even the rest of their career, if they played it up right. But also, of course, Carol was not most journalists. She was a woman, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she was a woman who continuously set sky-high bars for herself to keep swingimg over every story. She had to if she wanted to be taken seriously. There was no such thing as coasting for her. To keep so far ahead her colleagues couldn’t even see her tail, she needed the story of the decade, and she needed it fast. She kept her ear to the ground, and just her luck, she heard buzz about Tony Stark and Quentin Beck apparently settling their differences and drawing up a truce. Like she believed that. Tony Stark had a reputation for being… difficult, and Quentin Beck had bombed his building, Tony Stark still very much inside. She couldn’t see them sitting down and shaking hands after that. Still, she had nothing else to go off of, so she decided to investigate.

At 9 PM that Friday, she slipped into St. Margaret’s School for Wayward Children, a bar that operated under the cover of a Catholic boarding school. She hated how she had to pass through the lobby to get to the bar in the basement. A little girl stared at her, tracking her with her eyes as she disappeared down the steps. Carol heard the receptionist’s heavy sigh behind her.

The bar was cramped, thick with people and smoke. It smelled faintly of urine, she noticed, crinkling her nose. The clientele were mostly scarred, bulky men. Some tossed knives into the air, others waved around well-polished Tommy guns. Carol thought all together, their tattered excuses for suits didn’t cost a hundred dollars. She was dressed in a sharp gray suit with a matching bowler hat, both belonging to her father. Throughout the night, to anyone who cared to ask, she referred to herself as “Lewis”.

The bartender, a small man with yellow-stained glasses and scraggly facial hair, slid in front of her. He held a pitcher of light-brown liquor. 

“Beer?” he asked.

Carol nodded. She preferred to keep the talking to a minimum while she was undercover. 

“Never seen yer’ mug ‘round here. Watcha’ lookin’ fer in a place like this? Y’know the school’s upstairs?”

“I’m twenty-five,” she said. So much for the minimal talking.

He snorted. “And I’m John Gilbert. Anyway, I don’t give a shit if yer’ still sucking on yer mama’s funbags, so long as ya’ close yer’ tab at the end of the night.” He poured the beer into a smudged cup and pushed it across the bar towards her. “Now why’re ya’ here?”

“I’m looking for information.”

“I’m gonna need’ya to be a bit more specific than that, kid.”

“About the Stark and Beck negotiations?”

“Yeah, and what’re’ya gonna give me fer that?”

Carol reached into her back pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet. She took out three twenty dollar bills and slid them across the bar. 

“This enough?”

“Paper route goin’ swell, ey?”

Carol smiled as he pocketed the money. 

The bartender gestured into the thick crowd. After a few seconds, a huge man wearing a red bandana emerged from the sea of smoke and drunken men. As he got closer, Carol noticed every inch of his exposed skin was covered in scar tissue. His blonde hair was buzzed short, like a soldier’s. He plopped down on a stool next to her and rested his arms on the bar. “Whaddya want from me, Weasel?”

“Kid wants to know about the Stark meetin’,” he gestured towards Carol.

“He pay?”

“Forty bucks.”

“I know when you’re lying.”

“He paid.”

“And I’m gettin’ a cut?”

“Yer gettin’ a cut.”

“Outta all of it?”

Weasel groaned. 

“Yeah, whatever, Wade, but you better not come in’ere and ‘spect to drink for free no more.”

Then Weasel was gone. Carol saw him ten feet away, cleaning another smudged glass with a dirty rag. How he disappeared so quickly, she didn’t know. Must come naturally in his line of work. She nearly gasped when the man, Wade, plucked her beer from out in front of her and brought it close to his chest.

“You’re too young for that.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“And I’m Buster Keaton.”

He brought the glass under his bandana, still covering his face, and drank. 

“The bartender said you had information on Stark and Beck.”

He swallowed his drink and nodded.

“I know where it’s goin’ down.”

“Where?”

“2125 Luther Lane. Huge building. Used to be a theatre. Can’t miss it.”

“And when’s it happening?”

“Wednesday, 11 PM-ish, probably later. Stark hates being on time.”

She’s curious about this Wade fellow and his apparently close (though not loyal) relationship with Tony Stark, but she knows to be careful with her questions. Now that she has the information she needs she really should be going. The bar is filled with spies, and thieves, and killers. Sitting at the bar alone makes her at least twenty-percent more likely than the general population to be stabbed, and that was without anyone finding out she was a woman. 

But Carol so rarely had the opportunity to drink.

She flagged down Weasel to replace her stolen drink, this time with something a little stronger. She took a sip and nearly hacked her lungs out at the way it burned down her throat. God, it’d been a while. Wade didn’t attempt to snatch her drink this time. Maybe he believed her, or maybe he just didn’t see the point in snatching it if she was just going to keep buying more. Either way, she’d take it. 

Wade turned out to be not the worst drinking company she’d ever had. If she ignored his occasional shouts of “shut up!” directed at no one she could see, he was even pleasant at times, but no matter how much he drank, and he drank a lot, nearly eight glasses of whiskey that she’d counted, he never seemed to get drunk. He didn’t slur his words or teeter in his seat, both of which Carol had begun doing an hour ago. It was terrifying. Even so, she continued chatting with him.

“So what are you plannin’ to do about the Stark thing, anyway?” Wade asked.

“I’m a reporter. I’ll report on it,” she took a sip of her drink, “What about you? You gettin’ involved?”

“Nah, already did my part.”

“And what was that?”

He chuckled softly into his cup.

“If you’re there, you’ll know.”

She nodded and rested her head against the bar. It was surprisingly cool, and felt amazing in contrast to the warm, heavy air. She felt Wade tap her shoulder.

“Hey, buddy, you alright there?”

“Mmm…”

“Alright, I think you’ve had enough,”

He half-lifted her, draping her arm over his shoulder to keep her upright. She smiled when she realized he was only an inch or two taller than her. He was right, of course. Jessica was probably in hysterics waiting for her. She’d be getting one hell of an earful tonight. But no matter how drunk she was, she was not about to let this crazy possible-gangster know where she and Jessica lived. She disentangled herself from him and nearly fell on her ass in the process.

“You all good there?” he asked.

“I am not letting you know where I live.”

Wade laughed.

“I was just gonna dump you on the curb or something. I don’t go givin’ the fancy-treatment to some guy I just met in St. Margaret’s.”

Why did that offend her? She was about to say something in response, when a man crashed through the window, landing lightly on the floor in a crouch. He wore a black mask covering his eyes. Carol wondered how the hell he could see in that thing. He stood up, and Carol saw he held a baton in front of him. This man crashed into a nest of gangsters and highly-skilled assassin’s armed with a baton. She wished she brought her camera. The man sniffed the air. He made a pinched face.

“Disgusting.”

The smell was something to get used to.

“So is the owner going to surrender himself into police custody, or are we all doing this the hard way?”

Weasel was mysteriously absent. The sound of growled threats and cocking guns was his answer. He didn’t seem particularly phased. In fact, Carol swore he was  _ smiling.  _ The first shots fired, ringing through the cramped basement. Carol wondered what the kids upstairs would think of the noise.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two POVs this time, but Wade and Matt both make cameos, so it's all good. If you like the story, leave a kudos and a comment.


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